


Note to Self

by bananabog



Category: Layton Brothers: Mystery Room
Genre: DID shenanigans, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Potty Prof, inaccurate depictions of DID, inaccurate depictions of everything really, lucy has her hands full, mild mentions of death but that's because they're detectives and have to work with victims, placid prof, run ons ahoy, spoilers for end game and alfendi's DID, very full
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:56:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2521478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabog/pseuds/bananabog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfendi's memories aren't all there all of the time. It's causing problems.</p><p>
  <i>“Y’could leave each other notes,” Lucy suggests again, as their newest suspect is led out the Mystery Room (also again) in undignified snivels. Inspector Layton begins to unconsciously upright a chair he had just kicked over moments ago. “Y’know, leave some kinda record of whatever you’ve done.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Note to Self

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Spoilers for end-game. Mild mentions of death but that's because they have to deal with corpses on a regular basis anyway. Probably highly inaccurate depictions of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). Also probably OOC, but that's my fault and I apologize.
> 
> Set post-game.

“Y’could leave each other notes,” Lucy suggests again, as their newest suspect is led out the Mystery Room (also again) in undignified snivels. Inspector Layton begins to unconsciously upright a chair he had just kicked over moments ago. “Y’know, leave some kinda record of whatever you’ve done.”

“Oh yes, splendid,” Alfendi snaps. He knocks his chair over once more out of spite. The Detective Constable watches, with badly disguised amusement, as it’s set gently back upright by its tormentor a few seconds later. “’Dearest Alfendi, we’ve already interrogated this suspect. Don’t bring him in again, because he _actually_ gets physically excited by the prospect of torture, and it’ll leave you decidedly uncomfortable when you start threatening to do him bodily harm.’ I’m sure I’ll have time to read that on all five sticky notes the sentence occupies, when I’m in the middle of cracking – for _god’s sakes,_ stop doing that!”

She halts him this time, catching his sleeve gently before his foot connects with the furniture. The glare he sends her way could probably singe petals off flowers.  She counters it with a smile and he falters.

“Exactly.” She gives his sleeve a firmer tug, directing him away from the poor chair, pushes him down onto the sofa. A worn, used pencil and a slightly creased notepad, both prepared several times beforehand, is pushed into his protesting palms.

“This is ridiculous. And entirely unnecessary. Mostly ridiculous.” He complains like a small child. “It isn’t as though he’s not – that _I’m_ not aware of what’s going on most of the time – “

“’Most of the time’,” she agrees. She flops into the opposing sofa and sticks her chin in her palms. “But the small percentage of the time when one of you does take over completely, might be best to establish proper communication. For example: Ten minutes ago.”

When his scowl doesn’t fade, she tilts her nose in the air at him and adds, with mock haughtiness, “And I did tell you ‘bout it, Prof. You jus’ didn’t listen.”

It’s taken everyone a little while to get adjusted to Alfendi Layton – the “original” one, as said personality likes to term it, and whom Lucy Baker still refers to affectionately as “Potty Prof” – returning to the force. It isn’t that they aren’t used to Potty making an appearance, of course; He’d resurfaced enough times in their little office before they’d discovered the truth of four years past at Forbodium Castle. But people are seeing more of the side of him that had been buried for so long (especially when he actually leaves the office, and not to go home, mind you, and many jaws dropped in unison in Scotland Yard on that day) and like any other change, the acceptance takes time.

The Mystery Room evolves from a quiet, dusty little office into a subdued core of activity. The first few days Alfendi “Potty Prof” Layton returns to Scotland Yard, the percentage of previously-unsolved cases that get solved doubles. The Inspector tears through case file after case file like a ravenous hound, feverishly tracing statements and photographs as though the print from them will feed right into his system through his fingertips. Their phone actually rings itself off the hook with how much information Alfendi forces Forensics to continuously update him with. For once, it’s Lucy who’s struggling to keep up with him, a red streak flashing down the hallways while he shouts out something or another about bogus information and encrypted data and hidden addresses.

About a week after, she bustles into work to find Alfendi “Placid Prof” Layton draped exhaustedly over his stack of untouched case files, and nursing a cooled cup of tea instead.

“He needs a break,” Placid – the “not-original” one, _her_ Prof – had said. “ _I_ need a break. Urgh.” And he’d downed a worrying dose of migraine medication before passing out on his desk.

They take shorter turns staying in control after that, both Potty and Placid personalities. Lucy readjusts herself to dealing with two Laytons, instead of dealing with just one at any single point in time, as does the rest of Scotland Yard, again. More often than not, however, Potty forces his way forward unannounced, his unwillingness to be repressed again rivaled only by Placid’s appall at his manners. And for a while, it works: a strange, unspoken work relationship, where the both of them would interject (mostly) only at opportune moments.

 Then Alfendi returns to the office with yet another cup of coffee he doesn’t remember purchasing from the vending machine. (“Why do I have coffee? I wanted tea. And I already have tea on my desk, so why did I want tea?”)

Then Lucy files away solved cases in the file room, and when she gets back after lunch break the Inspector is looking through them again. (“Don’t tell me what I have or haven’t solved yet, Baker. I’ve never seen as horrifying a mugshot as this unfortunate bloke in my entire life.”)

Then one day Alfendi doesn’t show up to work at all, and when Lucy finally locates him, he’s stuck in the rain at a bus stop nowhere near a 100-mile radius of Scotland Yard without his phone, and he has no idea how he got there. (“I was at home. …I was at home. I don’t understand.”)

“Memory lapses are not uncommon in-between switching personalities,” Placid repeats wearily to Lucy, as she picks him up from his appointment, an appointment which he should have made years ago and only did so begrudgingly, finally and very recently at repeated insistence of his family. “It just never was a major problem before since… well, since I was the driver, and he was just the passenger. Or vice-versa. But now that we’re both driving… sometimes we don’t know where the car is, who’s driving it, or why we’re in it.” Potty gags. “What a beautifully worded anecdote. They should get that fortune-telling, card-reading grandmommy and both sides of her entire family tree deported for charging that much an hour for this _garbage_.”

“ _Prof_ ,” Lucy sighs.

But nothing has been done on Alfendi’s end since then. And so, they bring in the same arrested suspects, over and over, at his insistence. Suspects that Placid has already broken down, Potty mercilessly wrings out again with his cruel tongue. Suspects that Potty has already reduced to whimpering blubber only grow more terrified when they misinterpret Placid’s incomprehensibly serene smiles and calm words.  

It’s only when Commissioner Barton threatens to dock his pay for constantly wasting everyone’s time several weeks in a row that both Alfendis even begin to consider that they actually _might_ need help.

“So what… what exactly do I do with this?” He flips the notepad over, and stares violently at the innocent page. “This is like passing love notes in secondary school. God. Writing love notes to myself.”

“You could write down ‘Graus Keenk – Case Closed’, or summat,” she suggests, referring to the suspect that just vacated their premises. “Then stick it somewhere where you – both of you – will see it.”

“Oh, I’ll stick it somewhere, alright,” Alfendi grumbles as he begins angrily scratching out words onto the lined parchment, “stick it right up his sorry —“

“ – in any case, y’probably don’t have ta worry ‘bout this one, since both of you already know now that you’ve solved it.” She ducks as Potty hurls the half-written note and pencil at her (and across the room). “But it’s good practice! Makes for good habits, it does.”

“You’re just wasting my time!”

“And you’re whining like a spoilt child! Honestly, Prof! You’ve already got all these news clippings and papers and whatnot all over t’place anyway, one more piece a’paper surely can’t hurt!”

“You’re right. Sorry.” Placid groans and crosses over to pick up the stationery. He fills in the remaining letters and then pins the note to the large corkboard behind his desk. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“You shut up,” Potty snarls. But Lucy is secretly pleased and surprised when he doesn’t move to tear the note off the wall right away. “I still think this is an exercise in futility.”

*

The days go by, and like a cautiously blossoming plant, the Mystery Room slowly begins to fill with notes. They’re back to solving cases on a regular, uninterrupted basis again: Potty still dashes out of the building on occasion, Lucy bringing up a fleet of sirens behind him, and Placid still tinkers with the recreation device when he isn’t, chuckling lightly with her over some of their odder cases.

Lucy buys Alfendi various color-coded sticky notes eventually. (“Honestly, Baker, is this necessary? Thank you, Lucy.”) Once she’s sure the Inspector’s more comfortable with his new routine, she slips in colored markers as an experiment, and makes her own observations.

Potty gravitates towards the red or black markers and the plain, standard stickies. The notes from him often have stark, emphasized underlines, and repeatedly-circled words. Placid prefers the fairer, paler notes (faded pink or greyed blue in particular seem to be the ones most often chosen) and he seems to prefer using a blue pen instead of the markers, although with his neater, loopier script it’s easy to tell even if written in red or black ink.

She discards old notes only once she confirms both of him have seen them, pruning them off the corkboard in place of new ones.

_3:30PM SNIFFER, VOICE PRINT ANALYSIS – Done._

_Interrogated Cecil Tyle. 84.6% sure. WEAK. 100%. CANDLESTICK IN THE LIBRARY. APPREHENDED._

_Got tea. GOT COFFEE. Could you please wash the mug out at least before you fill it with coffee. NO_

_BAKER ON LEAVE TODAY.  Called her in anyway. Needed input on a case._

_AIR TIGHT ALIBIS. RIDICULOUS. False statement by Mattias J.  Deliberate. Fan of puzzles. One of those silly ‘this sentence is true, that sentence is false’ trick questions. Case closed._

_5PM TELL DUSTIN TO EMPTY TRASH IT’S BEEN DAYS Dustin’s on vacation TELL HIM ANYWAY Tell him yourself!_

_Lucy got us both mugs. Mine is blue. Yours is red. Thanks. USING BLUE. DEAL. Why are you doing this?_

Perhaps it’s because it doesn’t sound like they actually need to write to each other for some of them, but that they do it anyway, that she can’t quite bring herself to throw that last one away for whatever reason. She keeps it instead.

Alfendi tucks the memory of her quiet grin in the back of their mind and resumes scribbling out their next message.

*

They actually begin to leave _her_ notes at some point as well, green paper plastered to the telephone receiver.

_Lucy: Will be in late. Please ensure autopsy report by 10am. Thanks._

_BAKER: GET FORENSICS TO RE-RUN DNA. CHECK VICTIM FINGERNAILS. Soles of her shoes too, please._

_BAKER: IF YOU’RE IN EARLY GET DOUGHNUTS Don’t. Really, please, don’t. GET DOUGHNUTS AND COFFEE Oh well if you’re really going get tea too then_

_Lucy: Leftover pizza in community fridge, help yourself. Marked “Not for Sniffer”_

_Lucy: Please ignore angry, possibly drunk middle-aged gentleman with a cane coming in this morning. Ran into him yesterday evening and… things happened. Call me when it’s over. Thanks. DIRECT HIM TO CHAN._

_BAKER: IF CHAN CALLS AGAIN TELL HIM HE CAN [several lines are crossed out in pen] AND [several lines are crossed out in pen]_

_BAKER: M.R. - 2PM SUSPECT BILL LEMMINGS. WILL BE OUT. HE’S ALL YOURS_

_What_ , she writes back on the green sticky, but the suspect is called in at 2pm regardless. Of course, Alfendi doesn’t show the rest of the day to read her reply, so she interrogates Bill alone, along with a few other witnesses. By the end of the day she’s drained but mighty pleased that she’s solved the case by herself.

 _Excellent work, Lucy._  

 _He has time to leave a handwritten message, but not stay in person to say so god I want to_ punch _him_ , she thinks, when she returns from her coffee break and spots the neat penmanship under her original writing. But there’s also a warm bagel sandwich with her name on it that hadn’t been there before, next to the note.

“Tomorrow,” she shouts at the ceiling, shaking the bagel at it. She takes a huge bite and deliberately spills crumbs all over the paperwork strewn across the desk. “I’m getting rid of all the green ones! Take that!”

*

One of the sticky notes is not like the others.

_DINNER?_

That’s all it says. It’s not green. Lucy tilts her head, confused, but she leaves it alone and doesn’t think too much of it until about a week later, when most of the other notes dated around that age have already been removed, and it’s still there.

Placid hasn’t even written on it either, which is strange – all the other notes have been responded to by both of them in some way or form already. Is it a reminder for themselves? An unarranged meeting with a suspect? …Something else, even? She doesn’t know, doesn’t dare to think too far ahead of herself, but the more she looks at _that_ note, the more it irks her, like a bud she isn’t sure yet whether is dead or still growing, but just looks dead, but she wants it _off_ because it’s been there so long without progress that it might as well be dead anyway.

“D’you want me to toss that one, Prof?” she asks finally, pointing right at it. Potty gives her an odd, calculating look for a second before she’s suddenly faced with Placid, and he looks just as confused as she is by the unexpected switch.

“Toss which one, Lucy?”

“That one. The one that jus’ says ‘Dinner’. It’s been there fer ages! And you haven’t even replied to Potty Prof yet.”

“That…” Placid turns stiffly towards it from his seated position at his desk, and his face goes carefully blank. Lucy blinks at his overreaction. “…yes, you can take that down now. Thank you.”

“Oh, good.” She yanks it off the board immediately and with immense satisfaction. “It were driving me mad. What is it, though? Pardon my asking, jus’ curious.” She starts pulling off the older notes on the corkboard, her evening routine before heading home for the day, humming as she skims them through, and flashing them to Alfendi to check before tossing them in the overflowing wastebasket. “I never seen a note stuck up there for so long. Is it summat important?”

“Well, you could put it that way, I suppose. I…” She glances over when he trails off to see him writing something on his notepad with a black marker, in big, capital letters. Alfendi stares at it for a few seconds before writing back in pen. Then marker again. Before Placid can reply this time, it’s crushed up and wetly plopped inside his red, half-finished mug.

He sighs long and low in exasperation and rubs at his temples. “…Honestly?”

“Is… is everything alrigh’, Prof?”

“Peachy. Erm.”  

Alfendi rubs a hand over his face and clears his throat. He’s not making eye contact with her. She runs over all their recent conversations in her head, ringing them up, both written and verbal. She’s pretty sure she’s already re-checked, retrieved and filed away whatever he’s asked her to. Is this actually about dinner? With who? Her? They’ve had dinner plenty of times together already, mostly after a difficult case or when Alfendi got bored of his usual takeout joints. With a suspect, then? But which suspect? Why a suspect? Or suspects? What suspects? What dinner?

“Lucy?” He’s waving a hand in front of her. His face is set in his I’m-rapidly-running-of-out-patience-but-I-intend-to-see-this-through-without-Potty-interfering expression. “Please tell me I don’t need to repeat myself.”

“…uhh.”

“…Of course. Stop laughing.”

“Ee, I’m not – “

“Not you. Him.” Alfendi smacks his forehead lightly with the back of his hand for emphasis.  “Lucy, I… Would it…” He takes a deep breath, straightens up in his seat and looks at her. “Would you like to have dinner? An actual dinner.”

Lucy hears him the way he intends his question to sound and wonders if she should play dumb just to see his reactions.

“With, with him. Me. Damn it, I meant me. Us.” Placid puts his face back in his palm. “I am not doing that thrice.”

“Uh, yeah, Prof, we… go to dinner like… all the ti – OH! An _actual_ dinner? Like not a fast food or Chinese for once? That’s exciting!”

“Oh. My god,” Potty says into his palm.

“Don’t you dare.” Placid scrubs his face and looks up. “Yes, not those, and no, like a date, Lucy. I’d like to have a dinner with you that isn’t just purely soc… hang on. You know _exactly_ what I meant, don’t you? Your cheeks are flushed and your lips are slightly turned up.”

Her grin is Cheshire-like. “Guilty. Whose idea were this? And why the note?”

“I’m… not entirely sure, to be honest.” He scratches idly at his neck, embarrassed, but obviously relieved at her reaction. “Addressing just a note to you directly seemed rude and impersonal. And we both figured if the note was left up there long enough, you’d bring it up on your own and leave us – me, alright, me – an opening to broach the topic.”

“Because someone didn’t know how to say, ‘Hey, Lucy. 8pm tomorrow. You. Me. Dinner. It’s not a request.’ like a real man.”

“Very romantic, Prof. So we are having dinner tomorrow, then.”

“Before Placid says we aren’t – I already booked it. No, I didn’t leave a note for that one.” Alfendi shrugs and gets up from the chair with a lazy roll of his shoulders, rocking back onto his heels. “If he wasn’t going to ask, I would. He had a week.”

She matches him step for step, coming away from the corkboard and crossing over to him. It’s absolutely absurd, how fast her heart is beating right now. “And you were pretty confident I’d say ‘aye’ to it, eh?”

He takes her hands in his (she’s still grasping some un-thrown notes, crinkled in her delicate fists) and holds them, lightly. She doesn’t pull away.

“One hundred percent.”

He has on a smile she isn’t sure Potty is capable of, and one she’s never before seen on Placid, warm in his eyes and the trace of it in the corners of his mouth. She decides she doesn’t really care who’s speaking to her right now. Perhaps it would have been (more) romantic, if she didn’t have little wads of ‘ _4PM MORGUE’_ or ‘c _yanide poisoning, spouse was a chemist’_ wedged between their palms, _‘metal in the microwave, accidental suicide WHAT A MORON’_ slipping from her fingers. Perhaps not.

“I can list all the little nuances you made that tipped me off on the probability of your answer, from the moment you saw the note too, if you’d like,” Alfendi murmurs.

She squeezes his hands, and touches her forehead to his.

“8pm sounds lovely.”

**Author's Note:**

> In-game, especially towards the end, Alfendi is shown swapping between personalities pretty rapidly, while also almost fainting (and actually passing out once) every other time he comes out of being Potty Prof in the earlier chapters. I tried to do research on DID (and by that I meant googling for five minutes) and one of the things that came up was memory lapses when an alter personality takes over the consciousness, and leaving written cues as a form of communication between the different alters. I ran with that because cute and kind of hammered this out to get it out of my brain.
> 
> I mean no disrespect towards anyone actually suffering from DID. 
> 
> Characters and series belong to Level-5.


End file.
